


Rearranged

by ScarletteStar1



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Did I mention angst, F/F, Fridget, Hurt, One Shot, Smut, moody, sort of dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 12:16:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15485553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/pseuds/ScarletteStar1
Summary: Set early season three. . . Bridget is trying to figure out Franky and also trying to figure out her feelings for Franky. . .Please read it all the way to the end before you send the mob with pitchforks after me. . . lol...





	Rearranged

She looked so desperate and frightened. She looked like a little kid having a tantrum, swinging her fists and stomping her feet and tossing books and papers all over the place.

And yet another part of her looked like a warrior, or a feral animal- wild and powerful and willing to do anything necessary to protect herself.

It’s the dichotomous image you’re stuck on. It’s the image haunting you for weeks. It’s the image that follows you around like a stray cat. You’ve tried not to feed it. You’ve tried to ignore it, but just like a cat it has a fucking mind of its own. It follows you regardless of your intentions.

Then there was the little smile through the scratched glass of the slot door as you stood there watching her settle. You could practically feel her heart slow to baseline. She glanced up and saw you watching and her lips stretched slightly sideways. Again, there was something about it like a child who’d finally gotten her way. Triumph.

But underneath that, there was something else. Safely locked away in cement cinder blocks thicker than the length of her arm, she felt safe enough to show you something. The deadly tiger became a kitty and rolled over on its back. She exposed her belly in a rare show of submission. You felt the connection and wanted to feel more. You wanted to understand.

But she doesn’t let you understand and you can’t figure out why.

You’ve chewed your already short nails down. You’ve taken to picking the sides of your nail beds until they are ragged and nasty looking. It is not like you to allow one inmate to distract you as such. It is not like you at all.

So now you want to understand that and it frustrates you to no end when you can’t figure out why she’s gotten under your skin, why you chew and scratch but you still can’t get to the root of the matter.

You pace the length of your office, but it isn’t long enough so you go out in the hall and walk the length of the corridors. It’s strangely quiet. You ambulate with absurd ambition. Your fingers twitch against your thighs. Your hands clench and release in empty fists. You long to stroke the delicate underbelly Franky Doyle exposed to you. You want to know more. You want to feel what she feels.

You return to your office. You flop down behind the relative sanctuary of your desk. The friction of your pants between your thighs has caused a flow of distracting blood to that region. You wore the bra that flatters but doesn’t support much and so your breasts remember how they bounced, just now, on the inside of your silk blouse. It’s made your nipples taut.

She’d been let out of the slot and attended a couple sessions. But as soon as you felt you gained traction, as soon as you felt it was safe to reach out and touch the kitty, the tiger would snap and snarl at you, and you’d be forced to recoil.

Maybe it is time to switch gears with her, you sigh. Maybe a more direct approach would benefit you both. If you take the therapeutic upper hand, so to speak, it will remind you both of where you stand and what roles you play. Enough is enough. You shrug. It is worth a try.

Before leaving your office, you apply a fresh sheen of lippie. You tell yourself this is because your lips are terribly dry and it will help to keep them moist, lest their dryness distract you from the task at hand. You do not allow yourself to remember how you have been biting and licking them almost compulsively these past days, even in your sleep.

When you get to H-Block, the first person you see is Birdsworth. “Have you seen Franky?” You ask with a polite smile, praying there is no lipstick on your teeth.

“I think she was in the kitchen maybe?” Birdsworth says. You thank her and head in that general direction. As you walk, you lick your upper teeth, just in case.

The kitchen is dark and at first it seems quiet. But then you hear what seems to be cries of duress coming from the back. “Oh my god, Franky!” You say, fearing the worst. You race back past the sinks and throw open the door to the supply closet.

At first they don’t see you.

At first they don’t see you so you have a good long moment to take it all in.

Franky’s back is to you. She has Kim Chang up on the stainless steel counter top. Their lips are locked in a deep and almost violent kiss. Kim is completely naked, but for a pair of panties looped around her left ankle, and her legs are spread with Franky in between them. Franky has several fingers inside of her and plays her clit with her thumb. Kim whimpers. Franky uses her other hand to grope at Kim’s breast. It’s all rough and fast. You can hear the sound of Franky’s fingers squelching in and out of Kim’s wetness and it is doing things to you, things that you do not like, but you’re standing there watching. Franky lowers her mouth to suck and bite Kim’s nipple and then, she puts her face down over Kim’s dripping wet cunt which is spread wide for you to see. Kim’s head is tossed back and she is writhing and squealing as she grinds against Franky’s mouth. Franky, for her part, utters a low laugh against Kim’s slit. You imagine the vibration of her laughter pressed against that, um, area.

At this point, you choose to clear your throat. Kim jumps, but Franky looks back at you slowly, like she could give a fuck that you’re standing there. “You come to watch, Miss Westfall?” Franky says. “We don’t mind, do we Kimmy?”

“I guess not,” Kim says. “Ugh, I was just about ready to cum too Franky.” She starts to pull Franky’s head back toward her center.

“Hold up,” Franky says. “Maybe she wants to join in? You fancy a threesome?”

“Franky I do NOT want to have a threesome with that dressed up, old skank!” Kimmy huffs. “Now come on and finish meee!”

Franky shrugs and starts to go back down on Chang.

You find your voice and speak the hell up. “This is a gross violation of every single health code in the kitchen. Franky I’m disappointed in you. This could easily threaten your parole, you know. Both of you get out of here now, or I will be forced to report this incident and you will lose your kitchen privileges.”

Something about Franky’s face, as she looks at you in that moment, is like looking at your own self but in the warped mirror of a fun house. In her face your read the same confusion, frustration, and anguish, but you haven’t a frigging clue what it all means. You wanted to feel what she was feeling, and now you are feeling it good and strong, but you haven’t a frigging clue what you are feeling or why. Franky runs a hand over her chin which is dripping with Kim Chang. You look away and blink your eyes hard. Kim has hopped off the counter and is shimmying into her sweats and tee shirt. You cross your arms over your chest. You glare at them both.

“Wow, maybe you are more of a screw than you think you are,” Franky hisses at you. “C’mon Kim, we can finish this in H Block.” They saunter off, arms around one another. The elastic waistband of Franky's pink underwear is peeking out from her pants. You close your eyes but the color has burned into the back of your retinas. 

Your hands can’t seem to find a peaceful place in your hair, or on your forehead, or in your pockets. You storm down the halls and it’s like your ears are stuffed with cotton because you can’t hear anything. You find a door and you use your swipe card to open it. You walk out into the cold air and exhale so you can see your breath puff up, the same slate color of the late afternoon sky.

You know why you want to cry.

You know why you want to cry and you don’t want to admit it because then you’d become a statistic. Oh, such a statistic you’d make! They could study you. They could write papers about you. You could live in infamy, but that is not how you want to go down. Oh no. That is not how you want to go down.

You remember Franky’s glistening chin. Your eyes roll back in your head and you shudder.

You pull up the collar of your little jacket. It isn’t warm enough to protect you from the elements for long, but you’ll stay out there for a while anyway. You lean against the cement of the building. Suddenly you smell smoke.

Miles is walking up taking the final few puffs on a ciggy. She looks at you with a mix of confusion and irritation. You aren’t supposed to be out there, ruining her smoko break. You smile weakly to let her know it’s okay. 

It’s been years since you smoked a cigarette, but when Linda offers you one you take it. You inhale and cough lightly. She raises an eyebrow at you and smirks. “Been a while, eh?” You don’t know why you’re out there smoking with Officer Miles. You can’t stand the site of her wry face and stringy hair. But it suddenly feels like everything inside of you has been rearranged. You aren’t sure which part of you belongs where, or to who. So you take another drag and exhale in a more graceful plume of smoke.

Miles leaves you and you embrace the butt of the cigarette with your lipstick jeweled lips. You can hear the hiss of the paper as it burns. You blow the smoke angrily up into the dry sky and put a hand on your hips. Your belt suddenly feels lose. Maybe it is just because her hands are missing from your waist, and you know it. You know it. You fucking statistic, you know it.

===

When she comes to her session, you think you’ve figured it all out. You think you’ve centered yourself. You are not wearing lipstick.

She slinks in and slides into one of your chairs. But her face isn’t necessarily feline so much as one might call “hangdog”. You wait for her to speak.

“So that was weird,” she finally says.

“Was it?” You say. The second she opens her mouth you know you can’t do this anymore. Cat, dog, belly, cunt, inmate. It doesn’t matter. You can’t fucking do it for another fucking moment. You swallow. Your lips are so dry and you are tempted to bite and lick and suck on them until they are hot and wet and swollen.

“Yeah, ya know, Kim and me we had this thing. I ended it.”

“Really. Why?”

“The kitchen means a lot to me. And my parole is everything. And the fact that I was willing to compromise that just seemed stupid. Kim is stupid. It isn’t worth it. The kitchen and my parole are more important to me than fucking her.”

“So,” you clear your throat and try to make words. “You were able to refocus on your goals? That’s really good, Franky. That’s progress. But I have to wonder exactly what you were thinking. I mean, that seems like a pretty big risk you took.” For a moment you luxuriate in the fact you were able to make a salient therapeutic comment emerge from your dry, downturned mouth.

“Oh. Yeah. You’re all about helping me stop self-sabotaging, right?”

“Well, I’m trying.”

“So, you want to know what I was thinking about when I took Kim Chang to the kitchen to fuck her?”

“Yes. I do.”

"I'll tell ya, but first, tell me this. Did it turn you on? To see me, doing that?"

You sit there and stare at her, trying to not appear as furious as you actually are. 

"Ok, so you're gonna do that therapist thing where you just sit quietly and don't answer. That's cool. I didn't really feel like talking this whole thing out anyway. I figured we could skip over all the heavy confrontational crap and just get to the part where we kiss and make up."

"Cut the bullshit," you snap and point to the door. "If you're here to play more games, get out."

“You.” She sighs heavily and sits forward in her chair. She regards you with her lavish jade eyes. “I was thinking of you.”

"I'm sorry, what?" You ask. 

"When I took Kim in there. When I was fucking her. I was thinking of you. I couldn't stop thinking of you no matter how hard I tried."

Your first impulse is to be horrified, but then you see her face. You sit slightly forward in your seat and because your hands are in your lap, one is there for her to pick up and hold. She doesn’t say anything else. And she doesn’t have to say anything else, because in that moment, in that gaze, in that touch, she has just allowed you to understand everything she is. No longer cat or child or tiger, she is simply a woman sitting there before you with wide open, green eyes welling with tears. 

And in this first, furtive touch, you feel for the first time a flash of the future, like the things that had been rearranged the other day had been set down in their proper places. 

Now, the question is, do you continue to gnaw off your own hand, or do you allow her to continue to hold it?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for your amazing and generous and kind and wonderful and sweet words of praise and encouragement!!! You are all so sincerely wonderful. I am most appreciative. Please note, when I write these as one shots, it is exhausting to hear pleas for more more more!!! I am a full time, married, working mom and while I dearly love and deeply appreciate comments and compliments, I beg of you to understand I am not a fic writing machine and have these little 10-20 minute blocks per day to write in, so I do my best when I can and I'm also trying to write other stuff for other fandoms as well. I am absolutely addicted to writing, but I also have an insanely dynamic life, so I just don't want people to feel frustrated if there is lag time between stories, etc. Thanks so much for being here with me and for bearing with me!!! xoxoxo, SS.


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